The Artist Is The Antenna Of The

Usura Slayeth The Child In The Womb It Stayeth The Young Man's Courting It Hath Brought Palsey To Bed, Lyeth Between The Young Bride And Her Bridegroom

And The Days Are Not Full Enough And The Nights Are Not Full Enough And Life Slips By Like A Field Mouse Not Shaking The Grass

Artists Are The Antennae Of The Race.

No Good Poetry Is Ever Written In A Manner Twenty Years Old, For To Write In Such A Manner Shows Conclusively That The Writer Thinks From Books, Convention And Cliché, Not From Real Life.

Seems Fairly Clear That You Fix A Breed By Limiting The Amount Of Alien Infiltration. You Make A Race By Homogeneity And By Avoiding Inbreeding.... No Argument Has Ever Been Sprouted Against It. You Like It In Dogs And Horses.